


take my hand

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [173]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Dreamscapes, M/M, Pre-Slash, The Drift (Pacific Rim), or something to that effect anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: A tall man stands in the doorway; framed by the quick, howling, snow-filled winds. His cheeks are red, and his eyes are a dark brown; his hair’s got specks of snow in it, and he wants to reach up and brush them away. In his hand is a deep red cane. “Will you come with me?” he asks, voice hoarse; as if he’s run a long way, or just woken up.He frowns. “I’m having dinner,” he says. “I don’t wanna leave dad and uncle Illia without letting them know. Plus, I don’t know you.”
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [173]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	take my hand

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "prompt: “Hermann is the name of my best friend,” said Newt. “And we will always take care of each other. That’s what I remember. And if you’re Hermann…”"

He’s sitting at the dinner table from his childhood; the tablecloth, originally white, drawn over many times in crayon, marker, paint, and pen. His dad sits across from him; and Illia, too. 

“Dad?” he asks, “what am I doing here?”

His dad, seconds before painted in greys and whites and blacks, in a monochrome so utterly at odds with the man’s real life counterpart, jolts into motion. “It’s Thanksgiving, remember?” he says, gently. “You’re here on break. MIT can’t keep you from us forever, bugboy.”

His lips curl into a smile. “I guess not, huh?” he says; trying to fit the pieces together. Everything’s in place; the pumpkin pie and turkey on the table like they’re supposed to be, a tureen of gravy, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a platter of stuffing framing it all; but for some reason, it doesn’t sit quite right. He frowns. “Are you sure?” he asks. “It feels like something’s missing.”

This time it’s Illia who answers; frowning. “‘Course nothing’s missing,” he says, “we’re all together, right? Nothing’s missing if we’re all together.”

He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, a little hollowly, “no, yeah, you’re right. The three of us—” he laughs slightly. “We’re the perfect family.”

His dad claps his shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he says. “Can y’ pass me the stuffing?”

“Sure,” he says; and reaches to do so; and for a moment, his fingers pass through the plate before they solidify and hit the edge, nearly knocking it over. It’s blue, he notes, fine blue china—which is weird, ‘cause he doesn’t remember his dad ever owning blue china.

He shrugs; picks up the plate carefully, and passes it to his dad. They begin to eat.

The meal’s like nothing he’s ever tasted before; a rich, confusing mixture of flavours; like someone did their best to approximate what a Thanksgiving meal is supposed to taste like, but came out a little to the left; the potatoes are too strong, but the turkey isn’t dry, and it tastes like paper.

He doesn’t say anything, though; because that would be rude; his dad and Illia have invited him over and he’s not about to complain.

Finally, he finishes his plate. “Have some pumpkin pie,” suggests Illia quietly; and that’s odd, too, ‘cause he can never remember his uncle being quiet—that man’s always been boisterous and loud. 

But he shrugs it off. “I think I will,” he says, “thanks.” And he takes the knife, and his fingers slide through it again, and again; and it’s only on the third try that he manages to pick it up properly, much to his frustration; ‘cause Illia and his dad are looking expectantly at him.

His ears burn. He cuts the pie as deftly as he can; and takes their plates, serving a piece to each; and then to himself.

There’s a knock at the door. “Newt, can you get that?” asks his dad.

He nods. “Yeah, I’ll get it,” says his mouth; which is weird, ‘cause he doesn’t remember this. Everything else has a sense of being already planned out, but not this bit. Still; he rises; knocks his chair back and stands; strides to the door and opens it.

A tall man stands in the doorway; framed by the quick, howling, snow-filled winds. His cheeks are red, and his eyes are a dark brown; his hair’s got specks of snow in it, and he wants to reach up and brush them away. In his hand is a deep red cane. “Will you come with me?” he asks, voice hoarse; as if he’s run a long way, or just woken up.

He frowns. “I’m having dinner,” he says. “I don’t wanna leave dad and uncle Illia without letting them know. Plus, I don’t know you.”

The man’s eyes soften. “I’m Hermann,” he says. “We need to go—to go save the world. I’m sure your father and uncle will understand that. Please—please remember. You  _ have _ to remember.” 

_ Save the world. _ He swallows. “Hermann is the name of my best friend,” says Newt. “And we will always take of each other. That’s what I remember. And if you’re Hermann...” he hesitates. “I trust you,” he says, finally.

Hermann smiles; relief painted clearly in every line of his expression. “Thank you,” he says; and then, offering his hand, asks again: “will you come with me?”

“Yes,” Newt says; and takes his hand; and together, they walk out into the white beyond the threshold.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
